Emotion
by CSIGurlie07
Summary: You can't stop it. You can't fight it. Ziva-centric one-shot.


I sit on my couch after my shower. I am fully dressed, waiting for the proper time to leave my apartment in order to get to the Navy Yard early, but not too early. I had figured out the timing of my route during my first two weeks at NCIS, and now I arrive at the Navy Yard between ten or fifteen minutes early every morning.

As I sit, I can feel the walls creep closer, and some indescribable feeling is roiling in my chest, as if a wild animal were trapped inside. My colleagues back in Israel warned me about culture shock, but I know that this is different. I have been in enough countries across the world to not be shocked anymore. I know exactly what this is.

At Mossad, it was never an issue. You hide it at work, at home, and especially on a mission. You remain detached and objective, observing and hearing everything around you. You are too suspicious of your surroundings to bother about worrying what is inside you.

But here, in America, I have let my guard down. I still observe, still follow my instincts. But I have become restless, and now I am feeling the effects. The lack of car bombs and jihad extremists has denied me an outlet for my energy and, to be honest, my aggression.

Aggression is not kosher in America, I have learned. Words and diplomacy are valued above the raw instinct to defend oneself and establish physical dominance. Aggression earns you wary looks and whispers of warning to newcomers. Not that I mind—it has awarded me an added layer of protection from the onslaught of emotion from the people around me.

Yes. Emotion.

Getting into my car, I turn the radio on and music starts blasting out of the speakers, and it almost drowns out the jumble of thoughts in my head. As the tires squeal as I pull out of the parking lot, I fight the urge to laugh at myself.

Who would have thought that the tough Mossad assassin would be afraid of emotions? I have felt them before. Fear, lust, triumph, pride, excitement, and hate. So much hate, over the years. It would be the only emotion to linger for any substantial amount of time. The others always faded quickly, as soon as the immediately situation had passed, and the next orders or mission took over. And then the comforting void would be back.

But here, I think, careening into the Navy Yard parking deck, there is no escape. I cannot escape the emotions of my teammates, and I do not have enough work to keep my mind off my own feelings. Sometimes I want to scream, as if it would relieve the pressure in my chest. Sometimes I go for long runs, or beat the stuffing out of a punching bag, and it helps, but only for a little while. Then they come back, and it seems worse than before.

I do not even know which emotions I feel. I just know that they are there, clamoring… for something. I do not know what they want, and I do not know how to get rid of them.

I ride the elevator up to the bullpen, thankful that I am its only occupant. I take deep breaths, expanding my ribcage in an attempt to relieve the tension. It does not work.

The doors slide open, and when I turn the corner, I see Dinozzo standing next to McGee's desk, and the grin on his face tells me my partner is once more teasing the younger agent. McGee is easily multi-tasking, focusing on something he is typing on his computer while firing a retort in Tony's direction every so often.

Gibbs is at his own desk, ignoring both of them. His body language is relaxed, but I know that he'd be able to approach Dinozzo and head slap him in a second if he so chose. A twinkle in his blue eyes makes me think that he will not though: it seems he is enjoying the interaction between his two agents.

Watching my teammates, I realize something. No matter how uncomfortable the explosion of emotion is inside my chest, I would not want them to go away. Being in America, or rather, with Gibbs, McGee, and Dinozzo, has taught me that emotion is all right. Because I am not a shell, a simple tool to be used by my superiors.

My discomfort and confusion are important. They make me unique. They make me a person, a friend, a teammate.

They make me human.


End file.
